


Defense

by biblionerd07



Category: Revolution (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-28
Updated: 2014-01-28
Packaged: 2018-01-10 08:15:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1157249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/biblionerd07/pseuds/biblionerd07
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Old habits die hard, I guess.” Miles said, kicking at a dirt clod.  He didn’t have to look up to read Bass’s question in his eyes.  “Defending you.” He explained.  “I guess it’s just something I can’t grow out of.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Defense

**Author's Note:**

> So I don't really have a set time frame for this--after Connor gets away from the patriots? Idk. I just know Charlie is there and I guess since Charlie is there Rachel and Gene are, too? The important thing is Miloe, people. I just cannot keep a hold on my Miloe feels. Also I wanted a little show down between Miles and Connor because when Bass asked to speak to Connor alone Miles looked absolutely hurt and I promised Miles he'd get a chance to be Connor's dad too because Connor is totes the Miloe lovechild.

Miles didn’t like Connor very much. He was trying, he _really_ was, but all the kid did was complain and eat and be useless. He couldn’t even build a _fire_. Even Charlie could build fires when he first found her, but Connor had been pampered his whole life. Miles knew Bass was struggling with how to deal with the kid, torn between nepotism because he’d waited so long to be a father and his natural inclination to insist the kid start helping or pack his bags. Bass never could abide a dead weight.

Watching Connor wrinkle his nose at the squirrels Bass had caught for dinner made Miles’s blood boil some more. The kid was used to the high life, eating like a king, but they were in a different world now. And yeah, Bass didn’t do much to dress it up, so it kinda looked like a mess of shit or something—he’d never been big on presentation in food—but it was food, and Bass had spent the better part of the afternoon getting enough for everyone, because squirrels weren't exactly slow movers and their group was expanding and feeding everyone was getting increasingly difficult.

“Mm, squirrel.” Miles said lightly, toasting Bass with his knife. “It’s good.”

Bass laughed. “I know you love squirrel.”

Miles laughed too. Once, after the blackout and before the militia, they’d eaten squirrel for four days straight and Miles had begged for anything, _anything_ else. “I love food.” Miles countered with a shrug. Bass nodded, his eyes distant as he looked over at Connor. Connor was picking at the food on his plate, grimacing, and Bass looked away, raising a fingernail to his mouth to gnaw at it.

Miles felt his heart clench a little. Bass was trying so hard to be a father. He’d tried to warn Bass about the possibility of disappointment, but you could never get Bass to be realistic and not get his hopes up.

“Squirrel’s better than rattlesnake.” Charlie added with a little grin at Bass. Bass laughed back at her and Miles found himself feeling almost… _left out_. They were sharing jokes from their little road trip from New Vegas to Willoughby. It was fine. He was glad they were getting along. Really. Why should he be jealous to hear Bass exchanging inside jokes with someone else? His best friend and his niece. Being buddies. It was great.

“You want to gather some firewood for the night?” Bass asked Connor later, after they’d finished eating and had washed up. The sun was going down fast and it was going to get cold. Miles knew Bass well enough to know it was a quiet suggestion that Connor start pulling his own weight. Connor, on the other hand, didn’t quite get it.

“Um, can’t you do it yourself?” Connor asked with a grin that Miles thought was maybe supposed to be charming. Bass looked away, worrying his lower lip between his teeth.

“I think you need to start helping.” Bass said quietly. Bass was always better at direct communication than Miles.

“Oh, yes sir, _Dad_.” Connor was all bristles and cheek and it made Miles want to punch him. No matter their blood relation, Bass would’ve expected anyone they took on to help out. That’s the way the world worked.

“Look, kid, everyone paddles their own canoe out here.” Bass’s voice was tight with annoyance. “I know it’s not what you’re used to—”

“What I’m used to?” Connor finally exploded. “I could still _have_ what I’m used to if you hadn’t come in and screwed everything up! I was _happier_ there!”

“You’re my son.” Bass said. “I couldn’t leave you there.”

“You think life with you is going to be any better? You’re nothing! You used to have an empire and you pissed it all away. A dictator with no throne, you know what that makes you? A _psycho_. How many people have you killed? And with nothing to show for it. Why would I possibly want to be out here with you?”

Bass didn’t say anything. He looked down at his feet, nodding slightly, and then turned and walked away from Connor. To anyone else, it may have looked dismissive, uncaring. Miles knew better. Connor had wounded Bass, might as well have taken out his blade and stabbed him. Miles took a moment to compose himself before going over to Connor.

“Are you here to tell me to pull my own weight, too? That if I start helping we can all be one big happy family?” Connor asked sarcastically. Miles wanted to clock him but knew Bass would be pissed if he did.

“Nope. I’m here to tell you to shut the fuck up.” Miles said. The surprise on Connor’s face was almost comical.

“What?”

“Don’t talk to Bass like that. Ever again. Understand?” Miles was breathing hard, clenching and unclenching his fists.

“Are you serious? I didn’t say anything that wasn’t true.” Connor had the most irritatingly smug face Miles had ever encountered, and that even included Bass, who could dole out some truly infuriating looks.

“Oh and you would know, huh? You don’t know Bass, and frankly, kid, you don’t know a whole lot of anything. It was only a matter of time before your boss killed you. I’d have thought you’d have realized that, with how quick he turned on you. And Bass risked his life to get you out of there without even knowing you. He saved your life, and you’re thanking him by acting like some spoiled little drama queen. Cut the crap. I don’t give two shits what you do in the grand scheme of things, but don’t you ever let me hear you talk to Bass that way again.”

Miles stayed up in Connor’s face for another second, letting the intimidation sink in, before stalking away. It wasn’t hard to find Bass. He hadn’t gone far. He never did, not really. Bass was pacing through the trees, pacing in such familiar fashion Miles could plot the course before Bass walked it. It was always the same—four steps in one direction, hands on hips, an abrupt about-face, two steps, about-face, wide arc to the side. Some things never changed.

“I know I’m a shit father.” Bass started before Miles could say anything. Miles stayed silent, letting Bass pretend to be talking to Miles when he was really mostly talking to himself. “I know. I know you tried to warn me. I know. I know you were right. He hates me. _I know_. So just don't say it.”

“I didn’t say anything, Bass.”

“You were thinking it,” Bass accused, finally turning to face him. “I know I was stupid to think I could be…” He trailed off, exhaled hard, scrubbed his face with his hands. “Anything.”

Miles just crossed his arms and leaned against a tree, watching as Bass picked up the trail again and resumed his pacing, swinging a stick to hit tree branches like he was twelve years old again and Sally Dawson had laughed in his face when he’d given her a Valentine’s Day card.

“I’m an idiot.” Bass muttered. Miles didn’t say anything, but made a face that was mostly agreement just to try to get Bass to laugh. But Bass wouldn’t look at him. He was looking up to where the trees met the sky, blowing out little frustrated breaths in bursts as he paced around. It was something he used to do a lot as a kid, because his mom had told him he didn’t breathe enough sometimes. He’d cut it out once they’d joined the Marines and their drill sergeant had screamed at him for it, saying he looked like a damned ostrich.

“I don’t get to have a family.”

Bass said it so softly Miles wasn’t sure he was supposed to hear it. It made his stomach drop and it was all he could do to stay put against the tree. He and Bass were in a precarious place in their relationship. They’d come to an uneasy truce, but to say everything was back to how it should be would be a terrible lie. They were still careful with one another, still oddly polite but also still more likely to explode than they should’ve been. There used to be a time where Miles didn’t second-guess the impulse to make Bass feel better, but since everything had gone to hell, that was all he did with the impulse.

What right did he have to tell Bass he was wrong? Miles was the one who had said Bass wasn’t his family anymore. Miles was the one who had _taken_ the last bit of family Bass had had left after that horrible rainy day so many years ago. Anything Miles said would just sound hollow and false. Wouldn’t it?

Bass wasn’t pacing anymore. He was leaning his forehead against a tree, his back to Miles, and Miles could see the tension that went from the top of his head to the bottom of his feet. Bass’s shoulders were hunched up so high they were taking over his ears. This was a classic Bass-trying-to-get-control stance, and it was so familiar it made Miles’s heart ache, the way it always had. Bass only fought to get control when there was a war raging inside him, and Miles used to be the one to end that war. Now he just watched.

“I heard you.” Bass said softly, turning to face Miles now.

“What?”

“I heard what you said to him.” Bass had his President Monroe mask on, the completely blank face that Miles hated because he couldn’t read it and it made Bass’s eyes look cold and dead. Miles swallowed, not sure how to respond.

“Well, I meant it.” He said, because it was the truth, a commodity, like so many others, that had once flown freely between them but was now in short supply. Bass stared at him for a long minute before Monroe gave way to Bass again. His eyes were wet but the tears weren’t falling and Miles felt like he had to say more. He only ever felt like he had to say more with Bass. With anyone else he didn’t much care if they didn’t understand.

“Old habits die hard, I guess.” He said, kicking at a dirt clod. He didn’t have to look up to read Bass’s question in his eyes. “Defending you.” He explained. “I guess it’s just something I can’t grow out of.”

Bass’s face revealed something close to relief and joy for one second before closing up again, trying to block Miles out but not doing a very good job. He was still hurt over something.

“He’s right Miles. I am a psycho. And you didn’t deny that part.”

Miles took a step toward Bass almost unconsciously. “Bass, you’re not a psycho.” _Not completely._ Bass barked out a harsh laugh, because of course he’d understood Miles’s silent addendum. Miles shrugged.

“Oh, you’re fucked up, that’s for sure.” Miles continued. “But not any more than me.”

“That’s not terribly reassuring.” Bass said, his face looking considerably reassured. Miles shrugged again. Bass had once teased him about how he could go whole days communicating only in shrugs. _A shrug for I don’t know, a shrug for I don’t care, a shrug for shut up, a shrug for whatever, a shrug for you’re an idiot—those are the only things you ever say, anyway._

“Guess we’re a pair, then.” Miles said, and he didn’t miss the wealth of emotion that played out across Bass’s face at his words. So much resentment and pain coupled with so much hope and just…Miles knew what it was. _Love_. He didn’t know how love could possibly have a place there, not with everything Miles had done to Bass, but there it was, and Miles couldn’t pretend it wasn’t mirrored in himself. It was like all the times they’d tried to kill one another had just been part of their boyhood games, just make believe, toy swords and fake guns, a spat they’d get over as soon as they got bored and needed to talk to each other again. Their longest fight before…everything…had been 24-hours, and it had only lasted that long because it included sleeping and a stint in detention for Miles that kept them apart.

“Let’s go back, Miles.” Bass broke into his thoughts, and for a second Miles thought Bass meant back to how they’d been, best friends and brothers and completely united, and as much as he wanted to lie to himself, he couldn’t—it made his heart leap when he heard Bass say it. But then he looked at Bass, and his brain caught up, and Bass meant back to the camp, back to the group, back to the awkward standoff and hurt feelings. Miles nodded and pushed off the tree. Bass walked behind him, slower, deeper than pensive but not quite all the way to morose.

Later that night, with a fire burning on wood Connor had gathered (though he’d whined the whole time, Charlie reported with an eye-roll) and shadows flickering around, Miles said, “’Night, Bass.” to the familiar form to his right and got a soft “’Night.” in return. And a few minutes later, when Miles had almost drifted off, into the silence and quiet as a whisper of wind, he heard,

“Brother.”


End file.
